Without You
by Marie Whi Mitshue
Summary: SLASH! Illya is lost on a mission and presumed dead, and Napoleon has to try and deal with the loss of his partner and secret love. CHAPTER 2 IS UP!!
1. Lost

Title: "Without You"  
  
A Man From U.N.C.L.E. Story  
  
Author: Marie Whi Mitshue  
  
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin  
  
Type: male/male  
  
Archive: If ya want it, sure, just ask first, please.  
  
Feedback: DriftingPetal@gundamwing.org  
  
Rating: Definitely NC-17. Not all chapters will be rated that high, but there is going to be male-male sex here, and probably lots of it, plus blood, angst, torture, etc. BE ADVISED THIS IS A *SLASH* STORY. That means it deals with same sex romantic and sexual situations. You don't like that, DON'T read it. I am absolved of all responsibility if you do, cause you were WARNED!  
  
Summary: Illya is lost on a mission and presumed dead, and Napoleon has to try and deal with the loss of his partner and secret love.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Man From U.N.C.L.E", I make no claims on them, this fic in no way refers to the *real* sexual orientation of Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, Robert Vaughn, or David McCallum. This was written purely for enjoyment and not for profit.  
  
Author's Notes: Right.  
  
I've just been flamed by some ignorant, narrow-minded cretins on FF.net for some ENTERPRISE Slash I posted, and now I just want to post as many GOOD SLASH fics as I can just to piss them off!! You don't like what I write? Too bad for you. You think your narrowmindedness is going to stop me from writing what I want to write?! HELL, NO!!! In fact, because of being flamed, I think I'll write MORE slash, and not only for ENTERPRISE.  
  
Thus, from spite and pride (and an intense love for Illya & Napoleon) this fic is born!!! I hope y'all enjoy… *especially* my flamers!  
  
Hugs and Napoleon, handcuffs and Illya,  
  
-Marie  
  
//thoughts//  
  
*emphasis* (the more **, the greater the emphasis)  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"ILLYA!!"  
  
Napoleon Solo bolted upright, dark eyes wild.  
  
Alexander Waverly himself was there to push his number one agent back down on the infirmary bed.  
  
Solo's dark eyes cleared a little, and he clutched at the dull ache in his shoulder.  
  
"Where's…" His voice came out hoarse and dry and he had to stop to cough.  
  
But Mr. Waverly understood what the question was. He spoke as he lifted a glass to Solo's lips and let him drink.  
  
"Where's Mr. Kuryakin? We don't know. I was hoping you knew. Our rescue team found only you, and you were in fairly bad shape."  
  
Napoleon slumped back against the pillow, face aghast as memory came rushing back.  
  
"I…I do know…Illya…he's…" The words stuck in his throat, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. "He's…gone, sir." He had to lower his chocolate- dark eyes from Waverly's pale blue ones, knowing what despair was gathering there for the entire world to see.  
  
//My Illyusha…he's gone…//  
  
"Gone, Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked, startled. "You mean he isn't captured, he's…"  
  
"Yes, sir." Solo croaked. "Illya's…dead."  
  
~~~  
  
((Begin Flashback))  
  
"Run, Napoleon. You aren't *that* old!" Illya called over his shoulder.  
  
Napoleon gave him a *look* but kept running after him.  
  
Behind them, the local T.H.R.U.S.H. satrap went up in a huge fireball of flame and debris.  
  
The shorter blond spared a moment for a satisfied smile as he scaled a chain-link fence with all the easy agility of an acrobat. He shimmied down the other side as Napoleon scrambled up the fence with only slightly less grace than the Russian had.  
  
Illya took two steps towards the raging river and the sagging, brick- and-wood bridge beyond the fence, then dropped suddenly to a crouch, pulling out his Special.  
  
Napoleon dropped from the fence as shots rang out. He glanced up to see a few T.H.R.U.S.H. agents had apparently survived and were haring after them.  
  
"Go!" Illya called from his crouch, coolly aiming and firing. A gun- wielding foe dropped. "I'll cover you."  
  
Napoleon drew his own weapon as he ran for the bridge. He could cover Illya from there.  
  
Sudden white fire burned through Napoleon's shoulder.  
  
"Napasha!"  
  
He heard Illya cry out as he fell over a brick rail and onto the worn planks of the bridge, blood spraying in the air, sparkling like a raindrop of scarlet rubies. He'd been shot.  
  
He rolled, saw Illya take out the man who had shot him, saw Illya turn to look at him. No one else would have seen the frantic fear in Illya's sky-blue eyes.  
  
"Napasha, are you all right?!" He yelled, unable to run to his partner's aid because of the sporadic fire of the remaining enemies.  
  
"I'm fine, just a graze." He lied, one hand pressed to the wound. Blood spurted against his fingers, and he felt the hot flow of it down his back. The bullet had gone clean through.  
  
"Go on. Keep me covered from the other side." Illya instructed.  
  
Napoleon scrambled to his feet and hurried across the bridge to the cover of the trees beyond. The front and back of his suit jacket was soaked in blood. He reached the trees.  
  
Illya ran for the bridge. Napoleon took out a man trying to aim at Illya. The Russian put one hand on the crumbly brick to vault over the rail Napoleon had fallen over.  
  
Napoleon's horrified eyes locked with Illya's startled ones as the brick cracked and crumbled beneath Illya's grip and sent the blond tumbling down the side. He fell headlong into the turbulent water.  
  
"Illya!" Napoleon shot the last T.H.R.U.S.H. man and ran along the side of the river, wound and pain forgotten, eyes desperately searching the raging waters. "Illya!!"  
  
Further up the swift torrent, Illya's head, blond hair dark with water and plastered to his skull, broke the surface.  
  
"Na…poleon…" He cried out, one hand reaching desperately towards the dark-haired man, so near and yet too far away, as if some miracle would breech the space between them, and let them reach each other.  
  
"Illyusha!!!" Napoleon screamed as the Russian went under again. He kept running, stumbling, growing weaker by the minute from blood loss and fatigue.  
  
Illya's hand broke the surface, grasping and clutching weakly. Illya was an excellent swimmer, for all that he didn't like the water, but this time of year the river was lethally cold and swollen with ice melt from the mountains. His hand slipped under again and did not reappear.  
  
"ILLYA!!" Napoleon kept on running, searching, until he stumbled and fell. He sprawled on the river's edge, unable to summon the strength to rise, blood oozing out of him. One hand reached for the water, still trying to save Illya.  
  
Then blackness crashed down on Napoleon Solo.  
  
((End Flashback))  
  
~~~  
  
Napoleon refused to look up from where his hands were knotted into the blankets, only keeping the tears from falling through sheer strength of will.  
  
"Napoleon." Mr. Waverly said softly.  
  
*That* got the dark-haired agent's attention. Mr. Waverly rarely, if ever, addressed his underlings by their first names. He looked up – and was almost undone by the sympathy and sadness in the Old Lion's wise blue eyes.  
  
"I know how…*important* Illya…was to you." Mr. Waverly said carefully, eyes conveying much more than his words.  
  
Napoleon's eyes narrowed, face settling in to a bland mask to cover his shock and surprise. Officially, Mr. Waverly knew nothing of his two top agents…*personal* relationship, but *un*offically…obviously Mr. Waverly knew a great deal, or suspected it. He and Illya had always been very careful and discreet, for their kind of relationship wasn't accepted very well, even here in America. And Illya was officially still KGB, although his loyalties belonged completely to U.N.C.L.E., Waverly and Solo. If the KGB or other Russian authorities found out about their relationship, Illya would be on the KGB's highest lists, to be captured, interrogated and terminated.  
  
"Sir? He was my partner, and my friend." Napoleon said flatly. Not even to Waverly would he betray their secret.  
  
Waverly smiled sadly and patted his uninjured shoulder. "We will dredge the river –"  
  
Napoleon's eyes closed, jaw clenching at the thought of Illya's body being found, bloated and maltreated by the water, barely recognisable as the blond agent.  
  
"Sir, that river led right out to the ocean, and had one of the most turbulent currents I've seen." He told him dully.  
  
"I know. It's not likely we'll find…him. But we have to look. You're off active duty for a month – convalescence and hardship leave. But…I know this is hard for you, but you're too good an agent to lose. When you return, you'll be assigned another partner."  
  
Napoleon stared up at the handsome, lined face of his boss, locking his teeth on the vehement protests that sprang to his lips. //Replace Illya?! No one can replace my Ice Prince! Ice Prince!! He was never cold and aloof to me…my darling Illyusha...oh, you can't be gone, lyubovnick!!! How am I supposed to survive without you watching my back? Without you teasing me? Without you to love?//  
  
"Yes, sir." Came dully from his mouth.  
  
Waverly looked at him sadly. "We'll all feel his absence, Mr. Solo, and mourn the loss of him. And…" The greying-haired man leaned forward, until his mouth was close to Napoleon's ear. "I'm sorry for *your* loss, Napoleon. Truly I am." And Mr. Waverly straightened and left the infirmary.  
  
Napoleon Solo rubbed absently at the aching flesh around the bullet wound in his shoulder, but his thoughts were a thousand miles away, all centred on a reed-thin, lithely muscled blond with a façade of cold indifference and an interior of passion and warmth.  
  
~~~  
  
End Teaser/Prologue  
  
So, people, should I write more? Should I leave Napoleon aching for the loss of his love, or shall I let the poor man know his Russian is still alive? Then again…is he? Feedback will get you faster, better, possibly longer chapters! (hint, hint!) And feedback will let me know I'm not the only one who read this… 


	2. Memories & Tears

Title: "Without You" Chapter One "Memories & Tears"  
  
A Man From U.N.C.L.E. Story  
  
Author: Marie Whi Mitshue  
  
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin  
  
Type: Male/male Slash  
  
Archive: If ya want it, sure, just ask first, please.  
  
Feedback: DriftingPetal@gundamwing.org OR kumiko_chan@gundamwing.net  
  
  
  
Rating: Definitely NC-17. Not all chapters will be rated that high, but there is going to be male-male sex here, and probably lots of it, plus blood, angst, torture, etc.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Man From U.N.C.L.E", I make no claims on them, this fic in no way refers to the *real* sexual orientation of Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, Robert Vaughn, or David McCallum. This was written purely for enjoyment and not for profit.  
  
Author's Notes: This fic takes place back in the original timeline of "The Man From U.N.C.L.E.". I've taken a few liberties with some stuff, being that I wasn't born then and a history major I'm not. Probably Out-Of- Character. (Shrug) And just so ya know…I'm a BIG fan of angst.  
  
THANKS AND GOOD KARMA TO THOSE WHO READ AND GAVE ME GOOD REVIEWS!! To the person who asked, nope, never wrote for Hawaii-five-o.  
  
//thoughts//  
  
*emphasis* (the more **, the greater the emphasis)  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
His head hurt as if someone was pounding on it with a sledgehammer. The pain was incredible.  
  
That was his first realisation. His second was – //my mouth tastes horrible.//  
  
Pale gold lashes lifted slowly, revealing eyes so blue they could rival the morning sky. He squinted as sharp pain speared those brilliant blue eyes in the form of a ray of light. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
"Ugghhh…" He groaned with feeling.  
  
"Our guest is waking." A calm, soothing, feminine voice spoke from somewhere beyond him.  
  
He tensed, wary but unable to figure out why. Why should a voice speaking when he was in a vulnerable position suddenly make him tense and wary? He wracked his aching, disoriented brain, but drew a blank.  
  
There was a rustling noise and then the unseen woman spoke again.  
  
"I've closed the curtains. The light is dimmer now, and shouldn't hurt you very much now."  
  
He opened his eyes slowly. The light was dimmer now, the room cloaked in shadows. He was lying on a narrow bed, the bedding worn and threadbare but clean. The walls of the room were bare but for a faded painting of some countryside, and a old, but cared-for crucifix, and cracks webbed their way up the walls here or there. The curtains were nothing more than lengths of an old sheet, hemmed neatly to prevent fraying. A stool beside the bed held an old, chipped pitcher, filled with water, and glass.  
  
The woman was a slim shadow in the corner by the window, but she stepped forward as he looked towards her. She was a middle-aged woman in a clean, faded housedress and apron, grey-streaked brown hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, with a lined, kind face and warm, brown eyes.  
  
"W..where…" That one word cost him all the strength he had and drained him, making him cough and gag.  
  
The woman was beside him instantly, making him drink. The water was cool and tasted better than ambrosia to him.  
  
"You are in my home, young man. I am Petranka Golescu. My son, Mihail, found you in the river. You ran headlong into the rocks, but that was better than going over the falls that lies after the rocks, eh? You'd be dead for sure then." She laughed.  
  
That's when he realised that they were speaking Rumanian. He had a thought that this wasn't the language he normally spoke, even though he was quite fluent in it, but he couldn't think of what language he should be speaking in.  
  
"We're in Rumania?" He asked hoarsely.  
  
The woman nodded, arching one greying eyebrow as if to ask, 'where else would we be?'. "This village is fairly isolated. The closest town is Tulcea."  
  
There was a map in his head suddenly, and he realised, with terrible fright, that he was far too close to Russia. He was deep inside the Soviet Bloc, and if any Russian authority found him here, they would…he frowned. If any Russian authorities found him…what would happen? He couldn't remember! It was very important, yet he couldn't remember!  
  
"What is your name, young man?" Petranka asked.  
  
He froze, totally overwhelmed by the panic and horror that consumed him as he realised that was another thing he couldn't remember. He tried hard, but the only that he could remember was not to let the Russians find him, and the vague memory of a bloodied, dark-haired man, features blurred, calling out…*something* in a frightened, despairing voice.  
  
"I…I don't remember!" He gasped.  
  
Petranka shook her head and sighed. "I thought this might happen. You hit you head very hard when you ended up in those rocks. Your memory should return…"  
  
"And if it doesn't?" He asked sharply, wincing in pain. "Where am I to go?" His voice dropped to a trembling whisper.  
  
Petranka stared at the slim man in her son's bed. Wrapped up in a worn, second-hand shirt too big for him, swathed in blankets, blond hair falling over his blue eyes, with bruises, cuts and a lump and gash at his temple, he looked terribly young and vulnerable.  
  
The older woman sighed, knowing she was a sucker for vulnerable people and victims, and this boy was both it seemed.  
  
"You may stay here, with Mihail and I, as long as you need."  
  
"I couldn't impose." He objected strongly. "You've already saved my life –"  
  
"No imposition, boy. We can always use help with the animals, or in the fields. When you're strong enough, you can help out in return for our hospitality." She told him, faintly amused. Amnesiac or not, this one would never accept charity!  
  
"Oh." He said. "Yes, I could do that. Thank you."  
  
Petranka saw him try to hide another wince of pain. "Lie back down and sleep.  
  
You still need to heal."  
  
"Yes, I'll do that." He laid back and closed his eyes. Almost instantly he was asleep again.  
  
Petranka sighed again. "I wonder who you are, my friend? And if anyone misses you this night?"  
  
~~~  
  
It was dark in Napoleon Solo's apartment. The only light in the room came through the window, the curtains drawn wide open to let in the refracted lights of the city.  
  
Solo sat in an armchair before the window, staring down at the vista of New York spread before him, but not really seeing it. A half-empty bottle of scotch stood on the little table near his elbow, and a tumbler with an inch of the ambery liquid in it was in Solo's hand.  
  
Solo was clad, not in one of his Italian suits or expensive casual clothes, but in a pair of blue pyjama pants and an open, royal blue robe. His dark hair was dishevelled, far from his usual neat locks, and dark stubble covered his chin and cheeks, also a far cry from his usual clean-shaven look.  
  
Despair and loss haunted his normally carefree, dark eyes.  
  
He lifted the tumbler and tossed back the inch of expensive scotch. Without looking back, he lifted the bottle, refilled his glass, and put the bottle back with a clink as glass met metal. He glanced down long enough to move his unholstered U.N.C.L.E. Special slightly away from the bottle. The gun lay ready to be used, safety off and round chambered.  
  
A tear slid down Napoleon's cheek.  
  
"Illya…" He drew in a ragged breath, and gulped half his glassful of alcohol.  
  
In his free hand lay a photograph, taken a few months ago, of him and Illya. He stared at the blond man he loved so much, one fingertip tracing his beautiful features.  
  
"Illya…I can't believe you're gone." Solo whispered to the picture and the memories of his lover. Loving memories that tore at his soul, the happiness and contentment of them like salt in the wound of his despair. "I can't believe you'll never kiss me again…never tease me again…never kick my ass in chess again…never wake me up in the middle of the night with your snuggling again…never love me again…" The photo drifted to the floor as his hand reached for the gun. His hand hesitated over the deadly weapon for a second, the pain in his eyes bright and nearly mad for a moment. Then his hand fell back to his lap. He stared at the photo, eyes clinging to Illya's beautiful face.  
  
"I miss you so, Illya. I *can* live without you…" He bowed his head as the tears began to rain down his face in earnest. "I just don't want to…"  
  
The dim light from outside sparkled amber and gold in the heart of the bottle of scotch, and gleamed on the dull metal of the handgun, as the sounds of heartbroken weeping filled the apartment.  
  
~~~  
  
TO BE CONTINUED… 


End file.
